f i v e || Sealed Deals and Triumphant Grins

|24th January 2019|

THAT AUSPICIOUS HOUR WHEN THE MARRIAGE DEAL WOULD be signed is finally here. Henceforth, I, Celeste Wilson, shall be Aric Nithercott's official marriage planner and Elliot Bryson's unofficial, undercover revenge seeker.

A languorous grin has been glued to my maroon-colored lips ever since I began my day, creaming out a dark shade of lipstick just after opening my eyes-- my way of showing the world around me that I'm enjoying this day just as much as Zephrine had enjoyed her sleepover with Brianna last night, just as the expression Elliot had worn the last time I'd seen him, is glued to my memory, etched unto permanence. To say I am not looking forward to meeting him this afternoon will be an understatement of the millennium.

The thing is, I've sort of come to terms with Elliot's decision− cue the jeopardized heart− in marrying whoever this Olwyn is, seeing as that way I'll at least get the opportunity to dig into his heart and unravel the reason as to why he chose to stay by my side until Zephrine was born; why he had bothered to stay if he had to stay until only then; and more importantly, why did he leave without informing.

One mental dispute is settled, though; Elliot hasn't returned to the city just to get married, and hasn't chosen our firm without a reason.

He better be carrying a bona fide explanation to his premature and definitely unreasoned withdrawal and the unnecessarily swanky gatecrash into my life after nine prolonged years or I'll make his life the same miserable piece of shit his withdrawal had made mine because whether or not he appreciates it, I am determined to thrust an electric drilling machine through his heart if that's what it'll take to amass the much-needed elucidations. This dude needs to know that my life isn't an airport where he can come and go as he likes; if he comes here, he comes by choice, and with the intention of staying permanently.

A sudden, shrill ring from the telephone on my work table puts an end to my mental resolutions. I pick it, lazily holding it to my ear with my index and middle finger. "Yes?" I answer acquiescently. Afternoons tend to make me feel high and sleepy and slurry and uninterested more often than not.

"Ms. Wilson, the Nithercotts are here." Liam, the red-haired guy at the reception informs me. Elliot is here.

A giddy emotion swallows up whatever signs of laziness had previously tenanted my face, disappearing within nanoseconds. There is a momentary leap in my chest, one that has me reprimanding my heart to stop behaving as if it's my own fiancee that I'm meeting and not a client with who I once shared a feeling so strong, so intense, so eternal with.

Kindly do the honors of reminding me again when and how exactly I transformed from the marriage-despising assistant event planner to this excited-beyond-human-comprehension marriage planner?

Psst, I didn't transform. It's just the idea of finally being able to acquire answers I've waited so long to get that makes me sound so exhilarated. Haha, how can Elliot be the reason behind this vibrant side of me reappearing?

You red-lipped batfish, you know how! the stupid voice inside my head comments.

"Ms. Wilson? You there?" Liam's unsettled voice resonates through the telephone.

I shake my head of the distracting thoughts, clearing my throat before answering him. "Hey, yeah, I'm here. Please send them in, Liam."

"Sure." I hear him reply in his usual polite voice before the line goes off.

I stand up, walk to the door, and wipe my clammy hands on the front side of my jeans. Oh, look who's all anxious and highly-strung today, the same voice from before teases me. I open the door as soon as two curt knocks erupt from the other side, my eyes almost immediately zeroing on Elliot who is positioned like a status behind his parents. Sue me if this doesn't feel like déjà vu.

Despite having employed twenty-seven years of existence into understanding and getting a hang of life, it isn't the very moment that I perceive Elliot's sparkling but still dead orbs dart in every direction but that of mine, do I realize that being able to achieve something one wants damn badly feels this nice. Because now, the pleasure the sight before me brings to my heart is akin to what an alcoholic would feel when finally allowed to lay hands on an enormous demijohn of vodka.

Someone's avoiding me; meaning, the last meeting has affected them well and good.

Damn, I never knew I was such an influential person or I would've advanced far in the field of politics, and had such a thing happened, I would've already been declared US's permanent president. Aw, man, why didn't I think of it before? I've missed my chance at signing bills and making funny rules and being cast on live television shows, haven't I? Even Zeph's chance at being called the First Daughter is gone.

"May we, Ms. Wilson?" Mr. Nithercott asks me, noticeably amused that I have yet to let them in.

Right, move aside and let them in. "Of course," I throw the door open. "Consider this your cabin, sir." I grin as they all enter and sit on the opposite side of my desk, both the parents staring at me in mild confusion.

Reduce the intensity of that darn grin, Celeste, the voice inside my head reprimands me with an eye-roll.

"You seem happy, miss." Mr. Nithercott, the humble senior citizen I've grown a certain liking to remarks, breaking the awkward silence. "Perks of being a wedding planner?" he asks with a sunny smile of his own.

A sudden urge to rectify Mr. Nithercott by pointing out to him that this avatar is the result of being his so-called son's revenge-seeking ex-fiancee overcomes me, but I shut myself, not wanting to raise any sort of suspicion in the minds of the Nithercotts.

I have to be calm as the ocean before hurling my wrath in the form of a tsunami, so that when I do, everyone will be left horrified-- okay, let's stop right there. I, a funny creation God who to-date has prevailed incapable of living with the guilty aftermath of hurting a non-living thing (I once hit a broken van by mistake and apologized to it for six whole minutes and no, I wasn't drunk), let alone the person who I've sold my damn heart to, am definitely overestimating myself in this department. But then again, it isn't like I'm going to let my resolve down until I get my answers; mainly because I'm not doing this for myself-- I'm doing it for my precious daughter. So, unlike me, she won't have unanswered questions about her parents.

And okay, maybe 0.000001% of it is for myself.

"Oh yes, definitely," I reply with eager eyes. "A very enthralling job indeed," I conclude, my gaze intent on Elliot's bent figure who has yet to look at me. It's alright, though. I've started a game he doesn't know the rules of, so it'll obviously take time for the bullheaded personality in him to get used to it.

Mrs. Nithercott snorts. "I'd say it's the sum we're paying you that makes this job so enthralling," she says in an unnecessarily abrasive tone.

I roll my eyes. Rich women and their irrational beliefs. "Dearest Mrs. Nithercott," I pass her my famous not-really-genuine-but-genuine-enough-to-fool-someone smile as I walk around the table to sit in my large leather chair. "I really like your perspective, but I'm sorry to break to you that we don't share it."

Her eyebrows shoot upwards and she rolls her eyes. "I'm surprised you don't." My eyes spot Elliot's knuckles turning a pale shade of yellow under the pressure of his clenched fists, from over the table. Was I wrong when I thought he doesn't care? Please prove me wrong, El, I silently pray, not caring a deuce as to what Mrs. Nithercott has to bad-mouth about me. "People who share your status in the society do almost anything−" she would've continued her impolite, nonsensical rant had Mr. Nithercott not given her a sharp nudge.

My eyes immediately shift from El's knuckles to his father's cautious gaze. "I'm really sorry, Ms. Wilson, my wife didn't mean to offend−" he starts offering compensations for his wife's mistake but I quieten him with a nonchalant wave of my hand. I can't really blame her for possessing a big mouth; hurting people with mouths instead of swords is a trend these days.

"It's alright!" I brush the topic off as if it is no big deal. Had it been some other day when I was my other volatile self, I would have cracked like an egg, but today is not any other day; today is a happy day. And that is because I'm finally getting the chance to make Elliot realize the wrongness of what he did nine years ago. "Chill out, Mr. Nithercott. I'm so happy today that even snarky comments won't affect me." I say, staring at and eventually passing Mrs. Nithercott a smile.

She purses her thin lips, her mind considering different ways to hassle my happiness, and just when I think I will be made the victim of another outburst of verbal violence, she says something un-Mrs. Nithercott-like, leaving me utterly flabbergasted. "I guess it's a deal we came here to sign," she mumbles lowly, dropping her gaze to the penholder on my table.

Wow. Just...wow. One nudge from her husband has altered her character to such an extent?

I quickly make a mental note to personally request Mr. Nithercott to keep giving his dearest wife a good dosage of such nudges every day, cause if she continues to make alterations to her character at this speed, people will easily mistake her to be a descendant of Mother Teresa; save for the fact that this one is married and has an adopted son, of course.

Struggling to keep the euphoria regarding the sudden change of atmosphere around me off my physiognomy, I pull the file placed on the right side of my table, open to the first page, and slide it towards the head of the family. "In there," I nod at the file, "Is everything you should know about the deal. All the agreements, the arrangements, and the ultimate image I've formed about the venue."

Mr. Nithercott leisurely flips through the pages, pausing every once in a while to scan the content the white leaves hold. His eyes seem to like what he's seeing. "So Aric told you about the beach house?"

I nod. Of course, and he was being very modest about it because clearly, your beach house's experience is akin to an ocean house experience. That is, if resorts of the latter form exist. "He took me to one, two days ago."

"Oh, and?" He prods.

"And... what, sir?"

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Oh, it is a very nice place you own, and I have almost nothing to oppose the idea save for the fact that the decor and materialistic requirements will cost you a fortune."

He laughs at this, and a merry thing it is to the ear. "Money is not an issue, miss. Take all that you want. And this thing," he points at the folder he is examining, "Is very nice. You certainly seem to know what you are doing," he remarks, flattering my days-and-nights hard work.

"Why, my only purpose in life is to please." I beam, feeling smug about my accomplishment.

"Clearly," he smiles. "And what about the music system, the food menus, and the drinks? Have you given that a thought?"

I propel him a nod, almost naturally plunging in an informational conversation with the parents regarding the type of music they would prefer to have played and if they have a specific band in mind, and then we move to the menus wherein Mrs. Nithercott names literally every food one has the ability to find and savor in the western world and I have to write down everything very quickly so I wouldn't end up missing something and as a result plaguing her fragile good mood.

This woman doesn't look like it, but she surely has an infinite pit for a stomach. There's no way she hasn't tasted the food she is mentioning to me more than a dozen times a year, and that she still manages to conserve her figure like she's just been pulled out of some middle-age magazine cover wherein ladies of the forty to fifty age group are given those impossible diet plans and workout schemes that they most definitely won't get the hang of before dying. After that, it's the number of waiters and chefs and valets that are decided upon once they disclose to me the number of people they intend to invite to the wedding. Much to my absolute amazement, they don't plan on inviting more than a hundred-and-fifty (give or take a few) people.

El, look up at least now. I want you to see how copacetic I'm feeling after becoming your marriage planner, I try using telepathy as a means of communicating with Elliot who despite the conversation being about his very marriage, has made no effort to take part in.

Mr. Nithercott ceases flipping through the sheets when Elliot's hand arrives at the table, harshly positioning a pen beside the file. "Sign it already, dad," he says in that deep, titillating voice of his, not looking at anyone.

Hey, has what happened two days ago bothered him so much that he feels the need to prevent himself from acknowledging any living creations' presence? He hadn't spared so much as a glance at the pot of plant placed near the door, just kept staring his eyeballs off at the foot of my desk. I wasn't aware of the foot of the desk being prettier than me but guess now I do- and oh, how confident I feel about my surface beauty now.

The parents look at their son for a moment too long, the same question− What's wrong with this mortal fellow? running through their minds. Yet, when Elliot still doesn't look at any of us, Mr. Nithercott's lungs send out a long sigh, and holding the golden-black pen between his long, wrinkled fingers, he quickly scrawls his signature at the bottom of every page.

What is the matter with Elliot, huh? Tell me what I did was nowhere near unfair because hello, yesterday's events are nothing in comparison to what I have in mind. I will remind him of every teeny-tiny memory we have shared-- ones I have hugged with my dear life all the while I had to learn to live without him. Elliot Bryson, you better stop attracting sympathy or−

Or what? You'll throw him in a tub filled with live shrimps? the familiar voice inside my head sneers at me, reminding me of Elliot's allergy to shrimps.

The way that voice is being so active today is starting to get creepy.

El, please look up, I pray, ignoring the said voice.

Oh, look look, a miracle just happened! Celeste Wilson resorted to using one of the golden words for her brand new rival: Elliot! What, did the sunrise from the south today? it laughs, and I have to control more than just my hands to keep away the urge to plant a facepalm on my face in front of everybody.

This is getting too much.

However, before I can resort to mortifying myself for the rest of my existence, Mr. Nithercott comes to my rescue. "Son, you alright?" his concerned voice echoes in the large, silent room as soon as he is done with the signatures.

Of course, Elliot doesn't look at him. How can he rest in peace when navy blue colors the sky without having to revamp my cabin into a cinema hall with him starring as the pathetic, attention-seeking male antagonist and me the lovely, naive little female protagonist and his parents the clueless supporting characters?

When he doesn't answer his dad's question even after a minute, I decide it about right time things are taken into the hands of an expert; by which, I am obviously implying my hands. "Nithercott Jr.," I coo, leaning over the table with bright, hopeful eyes.

Elliot, look up otherwise I'll personally escort you to the window and do the honors of pushing you off.

He doesn't budge so I lean further towards him. "Aric," I coo again, trying to sound more sweet but panning out sounding like I'm threatening him into buying me illegal narcotics.

I watch his jaw tick from where he is sitting across from me and realize that even though he isn't looking at me, he clearly is paying attention to whatever I am saying. "You know, I once had a...um, a friend named Elliot," --at the mention of his older name, Elliot's head shoots up like a rocket, his gaze resting over mine in pure caution. Ah, trust me to grab the attention of people in remarkable ways. "Who told me that sometimes, when things seem to be falling apart, they might actually be falling into place." I lean back in my chair and squint, posing in the typical 'ey, chill man.' manner. "Just let go for now and chill, dude."

My words would seem very random to his parents, but not to him. He'd quoted the same when I'd lost my mother, the only parent I ever had when I was just eighteen. I can never forget how he had held my body close to his for days together, fed me three times a day, sang for me day and night, took me to the park for evening strolls, all just so my mind could somehow obliterate the pain my mother's death had brought to me. He'd done so much for me that I couldn't help but lose myself in him, in his caring eyes, in his warm embraces, in the touching songs he'd composed for me-- in his love. Willingly, might I add. And when he left, he took with him the one organ all mortals needed to live.

A heart. My heart.

And I'll do the same to him now. Provide solace when he feels I'm playing around with him which I am, but it isn't like he needs to know that, right?

He continues with his silence fast, his keen gaze searching every corner of my face for answers. Oh, if only he knew how persistent I am about reminding him of every memory he's engraved on my heart.

I take this moment as a once-in-a-generation opportunity and play my part in what I can only hope looks and feels mischievous. My tongue juts of the confinement of my mouth, tracing my lower lip onto the perimeter, careful not to mess up my lipstick for two reasons; 1) I haven't brought to work the same lipstick and 2) when matt lipstick is chipped away because a woman is unable to customize her eating (or kissing, but thank God there is no one in my life to mess my lipstick with his lips) habits to a minimalistic range, her lips look like a metal bendable wire has been wound around her pouting lips overnight, with no lipgloss to subdue the effect.

I bite the flesh in the corner, slowly and suggestively as I can, and when his line of vision races down my exterior to the said features, his expression is a clear reminder of what he was wearing the day I had decided to flip the cards over and win this ordeal, come what may.

"Dad, I guess it's time to leave," he says finally, his circumspect eyes once again back to mine, and this time not departing as he stands.

I pry my eyes off of his, concentrating on his father instead. "Mr. Nithercott, I was wondering when I'd get to meet the bride-to-be," I speak in my most charming tone, silently praying my question will make Elliot stay for a while longer. "Perhaps it would be nice if I could have a chat with her and see what ideas she's got for this marriage."

Mr. Nithercott nods. "Soon enou−" he starts before his amazing son decides to give us all a teeny-tiny surprise celebration by cutting him off, barely giving me the chance to breathe in the changed air and adopt the fierce determination that overtakes his features. His keen gaze changes into a challenging one, and he sits back down.

What in the bloody casket-- was he pretending all this while then?

"Tomorrow night," he says, placing his arms over the table and leaning towards me, a provoking smirk on his thin lips. "You'll meet her tomorrow. I'll be proposing to her then."

Boy, thanks for reviving this side of yours because trust me, the game was starting to get boring with me repeatedly winning and you repeatedly losing. After all, playing a game worth being engrossed in requires two combative players like us.

Lol, combative player, it seems. Have you seen your face, Celeste Wilson? the voice snickers again.

I really don't understand how and why this voice is talking to me as if it is someone else's and not my own. The heights of hypocrisy, I tell you.

"Oh?" I lean towards him as well. Now I know why Joker used to smile more often than Batman; being the villain in someone else's story is fun. "I'm more than excited to see you propose to her the way you proposed to me," I comment, coyly batting my eyelashes at him. His undisputedly, infinitely attractive eyes grow dark, a guarded look reaching out from the underside of his ears to cover his face completely before he can showcase the effect my words have on him as soon as his brain registers them. Ah, just what I had aimed for.

I sense both parents' queer gaze on us, charring our heads and sides aligned to face them with questions, but I don't waver, and instead speak further only to formulate my comment to feel discreet. "I mean, the way we discussed regarding how you'd propose to her." I throw a shameless grin at him.

What, there isn't a rule saying I can't hit on the to-be-groom, is there?

He shakes his head as he lowers it, the ghost of a smile appearing on his gorgeous face. It lasts for so less a time span that when he looks back at me, I am almost convinced I've imagined it, but I know Elliot well enough to know that I am not imagining things; that's pretty much how long his smiles ever last. It had taken me months of digging through his tough facade to realize that. "You'll be surprised by what you see," he informs me, a look of self-satisfaction settling on his face.

More than I already am by the changes occurring in and around me from the past week? I don't think so. Still, I don't want to jump to cessations because it's Elliot we're talking about, alright. That specific dude who can have almost anything with just a snap of his fingers. Yes, let's not forget that very important piece (VIP) of information.

"A surprise sounds interesting," I say out loud. I have no clue why, but a sudden idiosyncratic spark shoots through my veins at the sound of a surprise. I am going mad, I'm sure of that; all this revenge and surprise will ultimately lead me to my sad demise, I am sure of that too.

"Well," he moves back, choosing to lean on the leather seat instead of the table. "Another surprise: nothing's decided yet. Which means you'll be having a very entertaining schedule until tomorrow evening because she isn't aware of the arrangements, Ms. Wilson. It has to be planned in a way that, at first sight, looks like a casual party, customized to look like an engagement party once I've proposed to her." he says, emphasizing my marital status a little too much.

Since when did being single because you're too spooked out to love somebody-- anybody, after your cataclysmic first love come to be observed as a grossly unfair and morally wrong act? I'm a single mother and Elliot knows that. Perhaps that's why he is trying to weigh me down.

"Anything to be able to meet your to-be-wife. I, too, would like to see what you found so exceptionally special about her that you didn't find in me." I pause, rolling my tongue in my mouth and trying not to grin like the ignoramus that I am. "Or any other girl, for that matter." I raise my hands in mock surrender.

I don't understand why, but I am finding everything happening today amusing rather than heartbreaking.

"She will be the reward for your hard work, miss," he announces. His gaze holds mine in what I know is a challenging eye-lock before a mischievous spark ignites in his orbs and he taps his father's arm. "We should leave now, dad. I need to go buy Olwyn a dress for the engagement party."

I can't say I truly understand how they managed to stay silent all this while; all I can assume is that perhaps they found the idea of listening to mine and Elliot's conversation more fascinating than talking itself.

I allow my teeth to dig deep into my cheeks as I compress the urge to let the green-eyed monster inside me resurface at the mention of Olwyn. He's buying her a dress− just like he had for me. I suppose I spoke too soon; I did experience a 'heart-breaking moment' during this encounter, didn't I?

Control, Celeste. You're getting your revenge. Isn't that enough? Let go of El, he cannot be yours, the voice says, its tone much softer now.

Shut up, will you? I snap moodily.

"It was nice meeting you, Ms. Wilson." Mr. Nithercott pushes his hand over the table and towards me for a shake. Handshakes seem to have become our thing.

"Likewise, Mr. Nithercott," I say, returning the gesture. "It was nice having you here, Mrs. Nithercott," I call out to the old woman who is proceeding towards the door without bidding farewell.

She turns around, allowing her eyes to meet mine as I drop her husband's hand. Her lips quirk upwards by an acute angle. Can't she be generous with a smile, at least? The last time I checked, they were totally free. "Can't believe I'm saying this but I'm looking forward to seeing you again, killjoy," she tells.

I grin, elated at once. "Can't say I don't know what you mean. I'm one heck of a peacock in terms of looks." I say, sounding like a journalist stating the weather condition rather than myself singing praises of my own beauty. "Except, my legs are prettier."

Mrs. Nithercott shakes her head, smiling, while Mr. Nithercott leans his head back, scanning me with solemnity. "I think I'll get you a crown the next time I see you. You know, to match the heads and all," he declares.

"And I'll get you blue paint so you can paint yourself. Oh, and a beak and wings and lots of feathers that you can stick to yourself-- unless you want to look more like a peachick than a peacock." Elliot lets out a snorty chortle before continuing, "Damn, am not I gifted with one heck of an indigenous imagination."

I press my lips in a thin line. Lame, I think to myself, plus he overdid the joke. Mr. Nithercott speaks up for me, nodding. "You're right about your imagination being indigenous, son. Perhaps that's why none of us got the joke."

A mocking snort that actually sounds like a cross between a wicked witch's haughty cackle and a dying whale's whistle escapes my lips before I can withhold it. "About time somebody took his brains out of the narcissistic zone."

It's Elliot who snorts now. "At least mine has been taken out. Yours is still stuck in there."

I shake my head at him and decide it wise not to spend more energy on working up a witty comeback. He'll just respond with an even more lame one.

Elliot stays in the room for a moment too long after his parents leave, turning around to send me a grin that I know will be the most difficult gesture for my blood-pumping organ to accept, and when he starts moving away from me, leaving in his absence a sword that scrapes my gut every time I think about him and Olwyn together, I enter his personal space and place a hand on his arm. When I turn him around, I don't miss the elements of surprise on his face, yet it is him staying put nonetheless that calms my nerves to a considerable extent. "Already working on ideas to keep me from going away, are you, Wilson?" He jokes, easily grinning once again.

Been working on that since day one, Elliot.

I shake my head at him, my hormones surprisingly disinclined to give his words the permission to get to me. "I have no clue why you're doing this, Elliot," I say instead, cautiously peeping into his orbs. "But just be careful of who you're pretending to be, 'cause you might forget who you really are in the process."

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the door that he had closed up when I had distracted him from leaving. "And you're giving me this advice because I'm your...?" He challenges.

Maybe it is my mistake that I don't even think before replying, or maybe I can blame the sudden urge to be honest with him for once, this time. "You are the owner of that vain crap of a brain who has yet to realize what a see-saw of susceptible sentiments you are making me wobble on since day one." I hold my under lip in a painful grip, silently cussing my impulsive nature.

It isn't until I have ushered his stiff figure out of my cabin and shut the door on his back before he can question the ulterior meaning of my words, do I finally release my lip from between my teeth.

••••

An early update! Any thoughts? Do vote, comment, and share! :)

a/n update on 2/11/2020: I ONCE AGAIN changed the genre. God forbid I take this book down just because I cannot for the love of all good books out there decide its genre. It's now general fiction from chick-lit.

Congratulations, the book's still here. Phew.